A captain of marines was with the lieutenant; he had his arm in a sling and a mark of blood across his face.
“Conceal Van Ghent’s death,” said the Ruard. “Keep his flag flying and return to the fight—the day goes well for us.”
A ball had carried away one arm of his chair; three more of his guards had fallen, and the deck was smeared with blood and burnt with powder to his very feet; behind him, leaning against the mast, a dying boy sat staring at a fingerless hand he held across his up-drawn knees.
The sea was rising and the ship began to toss, pitching the dead to and fro on the slippery decks. De Ruyter stood beside the Ruard’s chair, his feet far apart, and gave directions in a firm voice.
The captain, advancing for instructions, had his arm shattered by a shot that splintered the mast; he went below to the dark cabin where the surgeon was at work, and returned to take his orders with an empty sleeve pinned across his breast.
The London opened an obstinate fire, and de Ruyter answered, leaving the left wing to manage the Squadron of the Blue.
They, not receiving the expected signal from Van Ghent’s ship, had given the English time to recover from the first shock of the onslaught; the Earl of Sandwich, on board The Royal James, his flagship, rallied his force and advanced in order of battle.
It was now past midday, and though the advantage had been so far with the Dutch the English gave no signs of yielding.
De Ruyter signalled to Vice-Admiral Sweers to take over the command of the left division, and make a decisive attack on the Blue.
But there was one Dutchman who waited for no signal; Captain Van Brakel of The City of Groningen, the hero of the victory of Chatham. Ardently desirous further to distinguish himself, he conceived the boldly audacious scheme of capturing or destroying The Royal James himself.